Workloads.

If I haven't said it before, I'll say it again: I live a lot of my life in theory.

"I could do this project and it'll turn out like so."

"I could do that thing and this will be the outcome."

"I could do another idea and it'll look like this."

In theory, everything is perfect.  I like to think that I'm good at stuff, so a perfect outcome is the best thing I could have.  So why move from the safe theory of perfection and dare risk doing something that looks stupid?

But as well as this frozen-in-time, always-imagining, in-my-head life that binds me so infuriatingly, I also have a completely opposite alter ego that emerges at ridiculous times.

Sometimes, this alter ego is a huge help - the other day, I got a burst of inspiration.  I fixed up Kid 1's chest of drawers and changed a light bulb.  10 minutes.  Not a big deal.  No reason at all to have kept one of his drawers broken for a few months.

But for those few months, what I could do to fix it up was perfect.  Actually doing it helped me realise that I probably have a lot going on that I can do very readily and fairly easily.  All it was was replacing a few screws here, undoing and re-tightening some connections there.  Boom.  Good as new; functioning drawers.

The other day I started putting a table together in my mancave out of some bits of wood that we have in our den.  The day moved on, and now I have half a table in my mancave.  It doesn't hold anything, rather, I have things holding it up.  And they'll be there a while as long as this state of inner-thought perfection remains.  Because I can see what it's like and I know what I want it to be like.  Which is perfect.

I wrote out the manifesto of the Cult of Done in my sketchbook a while ago, and I plan to do the same in every sketchbook from here on out.  Here are some of the points that have been helping me lately:

- Pretending you know what you're doing is almost the same as knowing what you're doing, so just accept that you know what you're doing, even if you don't, and do it.

- The point of being done is not to finish, but to get other things done.

- Once you're done, you can throw it away.

- Failure counts as done. So do mistakes.

- Laugh at perfection.  It's boring and keeps you from being done.

That last one more pertinent than the others right now, I guess.

I watch a lot of YouTube videos by very creative people.  Craftsmen, cameramen and photo- and videographers, adventurers, travellers, scientists.

I listen to a lot of podcasts by very creative people.  Gaming, science and medicine, comedy, church sermons.

I have a lot of input and I simply must find an outlet.  If it's something small that I can work on in work, all the better.  Something to satisfy, at least, the feeling of hunger that lack of creativity starts to bring.

It's a weight.  A big weight of frustration.

Like many others, I wish that there were more hours in the day.  But we're all on the same timeline and it's up to me to choose how to use these hours to the best of my ability.

All of this to say that I have some more ideas that I want to work on and I've made them small and easy enough to replicate to do at my work desk...

We'll see how they go...

Peace.

Home.

Walking from the airport to the car as my dad pulls around to load our things, the air is wet and there’s a crisp smell of freshness fighting its way through the car and airplane exhaust fumes.

Although you can’t see the rain falling, you’re getting wet as you move through the slick streets and damp pavements.

It’s just... there.

Driving home, the windshield wipers are on, even though all you can see is fog in the near distance.

This is my rain. 

No soft pitter-patter on the roof, no real sight of even tiny drops falling; but water appearing on the windows as we drive through this cloud.

Brick houses stand proud just feet from the narrow, winding roads, whilst pedestrians negotiate the paths and islands between traffic.

Familiar sights that have become so alien over the my years of absence - the pelican crossings; the pedestrian-focused footpaths and railings; cars parked half on, half off the road; the shape of the little red man on the walk/don’t walk lights.

I look out of the car window across a field. There sits a lone house surrounded by a handful of bushes and small trees; a hedgerow trailing away, splitting up the land. Of course, we can’t see the extend of the property because this raincloud lies across the place - obscuring the view but... completing it. The picture wouldn’t be the same if you could see it all.

Shop signs and road names greet us like old friends. The glow of the storefronts illuminating the roads as the mist keeps the early morning look and feel well into the later morning hours.

Everything is waking up as we arrive.

We’re just in time.

Following smaller cars at higher speeds while being half the distance away than we would back stateside, we wind through the motorways and B-roads to get to town. My small hometown humbly hosting a population that rivals the second-largest city in our state.

We pass the shop I used to walk to for lunch. We pass an old college I once went to.

A mile later, we’re hitting the edge of the town proper; a few furniture and appliance stores, a music shop and an alcohol store. Very much outskirt business outlets, but still important enough to greet you on your way in on this main road. 

We squeeze between parked cars as we approach the house; the roads still wet and the water still running down the sides of the car. As we open the doors and unload, the rain hits you very softly from every direction you move. Suspended there and waiting for you to interact with it.

Unloaded and settling down, we collapse onto various couches and floor spaces. The boys break out daddy’s old toys and get to work.

Granny Mops cooks up something “small” - only a handful of sausages, a dozen pigs in blankets, a pack of bacon, a full tray of potato cubes and half a loaf of bread. Eggs would have joined the party if Kid 1 was’t allergic.

We chow down. 

There’s a hundred things we want to do while we’re here, but there’s no rush.

We’re home now, and that’s all that matters.

23 hours after we set off from our house in the States, we’ve made it. Tired and hungry, we’ve done it. Ready for a good sleep and some good breakfast, we’re here. 

Kid 1 looks up at me, curious. “This is home?” he squeaks, with an expectant smile that warms my heart. 

“Yeah, Spud,” I smile in return. “Yeah, this is home.”